At The Black Gate
by backtotheshire
Summary: What if The Mouth of Sauron didn't just bring tokens to the confrontation at the Black Gate? What if he took Frodo as a prisoner instead? Bookverse/extended edition scene. Slightly AU, rated T for some nice hobbit suffering.


**So, my first story! I hope you enjoy this, because I had a lot of fun writing this. Thank you to my very helpful reviewers - I had some trouble posting the first draft of this chapter, as for some reason the site converted all I had written into a massive block which was hard to read. **

**Anyways, enjoy and _Novaer, mellon nin!_**

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Frodo didn't know how long he sat in the chambers of Cirith Ungol in silent misery. It could have been minutes, but then again it could have been days. It all seemed to melt into a long, painful blur, the cruel voices of orcs indistinguishable from the taunting whispers of the ring.

The orcs had whips, that was one thing he knew. Oh, he knew. The feeling of twisted leather biting his flesh was still fresh in his mind. They also has knives, and a favourite game of their's was to throw a blade at him and see how close they could get before the serrated edge slipped and stabbed him. This 'game' had led to many cuts and gashes on the hobbit's side and ears.

When all weapons had been used, the orcs resorted to using brute force - kicking, slapping and punching. The foul creatures would tug at his hair and scrape their claws down his side, cackling when they heard his cries of pain.

The Black Speech was the language most commonly used in the tower of Cirith Ungol. The orcs that dwelled in Mordor felt much more comfortable using the wicked tongue than the softer, more civilised Common Speech. Yet, the latter was used now and again, to convey a message to an orc of lesser ranking, or one who was not learned in the bitter language of Mordor.

One particular conversation was held in the Common Speech, outside of Frodo's cell. At the sound of a familiar tongue, Frodo's ears perked up and he listened through his semi-conscious state.

'What, this li'l piece a scum?' came the rough voice of Shagrat. 'Nothin' more than a Shire rat. The Mouth don't want 'im, I'm sure of it.'

'No, I've got orders straigh' from The Dark Lord. 'E wants to scare the army down there a bit, frighten them off,' replied a higher voice, belonging to an orc.

'Fine then. But bring 'im back, I'm not done wiv 'im yet.'

Frodo felt himself being lifted off the ground, and rough, scratchy clothes being shoved over his head. He made no attempt to protest, as he knew it would only earn him a slap. The hands holding him upright were clawed and not at all gentle, and he winced as the talons dug into his already raw flesh.

'You should be honoured, runt. You're goin' to see the Mouth,' the orc taunted. 'Or is that below you, seein' as you've been raised on a silver platter in that little rat-land that you call the Shire?' Frodo felt a spark of anger burn in his chest as he heard his beloved home being referred to. Yet he didn't say anything - in this place, it was not permitted.

He heard the crack of a whip, but too late. The searing pain on his back was barely subdued by the layer of clothing that he wore. He flinched and cowered away from the biting whip, but was yanked upright by the hands of the orc.

'You ain't gettin' away that easy, runt.' Frodo whimpered as the whip lashed down on him again. 'Walk, dammit!' The hobbit got to his feet and focused on putting one foot in front of another. Down the winding steps, then out into the desolate wasteland that was Mordor. The ground was dusty and littered with sharp pebbles. There was the stench of death and despair in the air, and even drawing breath was painful.

Frodo forced himself to look around. He had left the tower of Cirith Ungol behind him, and the dark shape reared up against the fiery red sky. Far in the distance he could see the looming shape of Mount Doom, it's summit clouded with ash and smoke and fire. The ground was crawling with black masses carrying torches, which Frodo guessed by the roars and screeches were orcs.

And in the midst of the chaos, a single spot of light pierced the darkness.

The eye.

Frodo cowered as the great fiery orb swept over the land of Mordor, searching, probing. Even looking at it made his legs feel weak. He wanted to get away from the piercing gaze, away from the searing heat, he would do anything, he just wanted to escape...

The whip came down on his back again and his mind was torn from the fiery eye. He turned around and focused on the floor, trying to ignore the taunts of the foul orc with the whip.

'Come on, runt! Walk!' the orc jeered. 'The Mouth don't like bein' kept waitin'!'

After what seemed like an eternity to Frodo, the orc shouted at him to stop. He felt exhausted, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He was led into a building, and then a dark room. It had the stench of... well, Frodo couldn't exactly put a finger on it. It had an atmosphere of darkness and deceit and lies.

Suddenly, a voice jarred him back to reality. It was unlike the voices of the orcs, and had a edge to it which made Frodo uneasy. It almost sounded like it did not issue from the mouth of one person, but like many were talking at once.

'Ah, the halfling.' The voice was almost a purr. 'We shall give his friends a little shock, shall we not? They will learn that their spy is not as clever as they thought.'

Frodo looked up and saw a horrifying sight. Standing before him was a figure clad in black armour, with a tall helmet that showed only his mouth. His mouth. It was something foul. The skin around it was festering and cracked, the lips withered with rot. His tongue looked burnt and black, and the whole thing was twisted into a menacing sneer.

The hobbit took a nervous step backwards, trying to get away from the hideous sight. Frodo suddenly felt himself being hoisted up onto something. He almost sighed with relief. Finally, he wouldn't have to walk anymore! He felt rough hair underneath his hands and guessed that he was sat on a horse.

Frodo suddenly heard a voice through the far off chanting of the orc armies. It was very familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on who it belonged to. It was a man's, a loud, deep voice.

As he strained further to hear it, he suddenly remembered an image. He was in a room, but very different to the one he was sat in at that moment. It was warm and bright, and a fire was crackling in the corner. He turned around and realised he was nose to nose with a man.

'Are you frightened?'

Aragorn.


End file.
